


Augmented

by dire_quail



Category: Terminator (Movies), Terminator: Dark Fate
Genre: Augmentation Angst, Augments, Body Dysphoria, Character Study, Dildos, FUTURISTIC strap-ons, Gen, Gender Metaphoria, Gender: Augmented, Genderplay, Identity Issues, Other, Pining, Politics of Augmentation, Strap-Ons, Worldbuilding, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dire_quail/pseuds/dire_quail
Summary: One-shot. Grace has managed to get ahold of a new augmentation/biohack, and takes a minute to get familiar with it.Note: There’s no explicit sex in this, but I mean, it’s basically Grace staring at a strap-on while she’s wearing it and getting a hard-on. *shrug emoji*Grace/Dani pining if you squint, but doesn’t have to be about Dani if you don’t want it to.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Augmented

The piece is heavy in Grace’s hand. It’s mostly black, with chrome accents on some of the joints and ridges. 

It is blatantly not meant to be a realistic human dick. The design is somewhere between “what we think Terminators’ dicks would look like if they actually had their own” and “wouldn’t it be dope if my dick looked like this”. There are rows and rows of—scales? joints? plates?—dozens of tiny ridges that Grace knows will come alive when the prosthetic is put on, glittering black, curving into the shape of the shaft. Silvery chrome accents flash at certain points, but disjointed, while the piece is inert. The construction is a step down from “liquid metal”—but there’s liquid metal in there, too. Just not for giving the piece its shape. 

It feels cold and too-heavy in Grace’s hand—hyper-dense. The individual plates have give, though; shift and slide and let the piece flop around a bit if she lets it. Disembodied. She turns it and looks at the base. 

The base has a number of electrodes on it, and looks flat apart from the control ring the electrodes are all attached to. 

Grace rinses the whole damn thing in rubbing alcohol. They may have put the pieces in an autoclave, but this is still the post-apocalypse, and she’s not putting that anywhere near her cunt until she’s sure it’s clean. 

When it’s dry, she undoes her belt and unzips her BDUs, unwontedly nervous but no idea why. She knows what’s going to happen. A full three-quarters of the Augments have at least one of these—even the men, thanks to the tendency of the Augmentation process to ruin their ability to hold an erection. 

This isn’t some kind of recovery or prosthetic for her, though. This is… It’s… 

Grace handles the piece until the base is pressed up against her clit, more or less, her generally steady hands sweaty and she can’t seem to get the angle right. She waits for a minute, holding it in place there, and in that brief awkward moment where nothing’s outwardly happening, Grace’s Augments ping hard on that control ring, establishing a connection. 

And then the liquid metal kicks in. 

It’s _cold_ , at first. But the metal slides along her skin, warming, slides inside her—and then the electrodes make contact with her nerves and Grace lets go of the prosthetic with a sharp inhale. 

She felt that. 

Grace watches the liquid metal spread out from the piece across her body—up and over her hips, directly out and around, down her thighs. As she watches, the leading edge of the metal disappears around her back, then starts to change color until it matches her skin tone—and then she can’t see it at all. But the piece stays firmly in place, still a stark black-and-chrome, still strangely dense and heavy. 

She studies herself. Her hips are narrower and her shoulders broader, thanks to the Augmentation process and some light starvation, but she’s no Hadrell. She can’t tell if she likes the way her body frames it or doesn’t, but she likes the way the piece is unmistakably alien against the rest of her, sinuous and statuesque in a way that flesh can’t manage. Beautiful, for the way it gleams, and sinister, and threatening—glinting when it could hide itself. Somehow, though, that makes it feel more at home on her skinny, scarred body, not less. Grace wears all her augmentations inside her skin, under the surface; this feels like an extension of that, like a breach, almost. The machine in her pushed through to the surface. Like the older Augments, with parts of their flesh literally stripped away and unable to grow back, unconcerned with obtaining a graft to restore their human appearance. Or the biohackers she saw today at the stalls, skin striped with electronics, metal. Human, but she knows from experience that more than a few see themselves as something else entirely. 

A younger version of her, even a more newly-Augmented one, would’ve been enraged by that take, like not hating the idea of being fused with a machine was tantamount to surrendering to Legion. And even if they had to— _she’d_ had to, after all—it was only acceptable for the utility of it, the value to the humans around her. She was human. She was a human wearing a machine. She was human because that’s whose side she was on. Compromised, but human. 

And now she’s here, because that reasoning isn’t enough. Because admitting you feel less human is just saying what everyone else is thinking, Augmented or not, and no one cares. And for all the oblique jokes, the casual passing around of biohacks, drugs, “enhancements”—enjoying being something else feels like teetering over the edge of a precipice, and down at the bottom are things like insanity, rejection syndrome, and treason. 

She stares at the piece. It matches her hands, clenched nearby on the lip of the sink—not the look, necessarily, but the power, the weight, the intrusiveness of it. The extra space it takes up—not much, maybe, relatively, but the difference it makes in how she stands, how she holds herself, is hard to overstate. It’s slick and heavy and real as the machine inside her body that they fused her with. It feels like _her_ , in other words. 

That rush she feels—congruence, completeness, _power_ —sweeps through her body, and the piece responds to that, too. 

It’s an unoriginal response, maybe, but her brain buzzing with the rush of a new part, _this_ new part—she has to admit, it’s an accurate reflection of how she feels. Outside of a firefight, it’s the only time all her parts have felt like they’re working together, part of a whole. 

_Augmented._

So that’s what they mean by that. Not just a condescending politically-correct platitude meant to protect their feelings from the reality of what’s been done to them, but something entirely its own. Something whole, or as close as anything ever can be. 

It’s not supposed to make sense, the parts Grace can see in the mirror. The scars crawling up her arms to disappear under her tank top, metal inside seamed whitened knuckles, the hunch of her shoulders as she leans over the sink, hair threatening to fall in her eyes. The white tank rucked up over her hips and the open zipper framing her scarred abdomen and a hint of her inner thighs and that cock, inhuman and exposed as the rest of her. 

But it does. It makes sense, and the rest of her is as hard as her brand-new dick. Like whatever interface the machine is using, her mind still knows what to do with it, how to respond to it. 

Gingerly—though it doesn’t take much effort—Grace lets her mind wander. Imagines bracing herself over someone, salt and metal, too-hot skin and _this_ , this new body part, between them. Offering everything her body can do—her focus, her strength, speed—

This. It’s there, too. 

Without much trying, that visualization becomes a particular person, and Grace’s breath hisses out at the feeling that climbs her spine, the rush to her head and the rush away from it. That heat hits the base of her skull and something wild bursts into her consciousness, scattering all her thoughts about oneness and congruence and a self that makes sense. Her head bows, neck and jaw suddenly taut. The sink’s ceramic makes an ominous sound and Grace releases her grip, stepping back quickly. A quick scan reveals some micro-fissures, but nothing that will break anytime soon, as long as Grace doesn’t keep using the sink as a stress ball. 

Fuck, whoever architected this piece sure paid attention to the details. 

Fuck. She’s really into this. 

She looks over her shoulder at the door. Dani’s not back yet. Shouldn’t be back for another half an hour. 

That’s enough time to get through this once before she has to turn off this particular subroutine. 

Right?


End file.
